


—fail-safe—|

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, If I Can't Have You, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23454682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: “If I can’t have you, no one can,” Dr. Whitly snarled, advancing on Malcolm with a knife brandished in his hand.A response to Jameena's prompt to create a new scenario based on Aceofwhump's gif of Alone Time of Malcolm kneeling in the basement.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 66
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	—fail-safe—|

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Alone Time gif](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/577204) by Aceofwhump. 



“If I can’t have you, no one can,” Dr. Whitly snarled, advancing on Malcolm with a knife brandished in his hand. The white stuck in Malcolm’s mind as readily as it pierced into his gut. His eyes never left his father’s, cataloguing every wrinkle, every muscle of his vicious strike.

 _Fuck_. No one wanted him. If someone was going to, why did it have to be his narcissistic, psychopathic father. Why did there need to be a Malcolm-sized possession mounted on his overcrowded bookshelf.

“I’m leaving,” Malcolm had said, advancing toward the door.

“Can’t we talk about this?” Martin had pleaded. “You’re being a little hypercritical — like your mother.”

Malcolm had known he should keep walking, but he couldn’t stop himself from turning around and glaring at him. “You’re on the leash. I’m free,” he had gritted out, his teeth clenching with stress. A tooth fracture would have been less painful than the conversation.

Malcolm had been on the safe side of the prominent red line when Dr. Whitly had snarled and lunged. His stance had held the confidence of a man who had had enough of Dr. Whitly’s shit.

No one had factored in the degrading effect of the force of pulling from the wall over time. No one had considered multiple bolts as backup in case one failed. No one had imagined the concrete would give and the bolt would come out, releasing the monster.

No one had seen Dr. Whitly had fashioned a knife from a spork.

Eyes only took notice when Malcolm hit the ground.

Dr. Whitly wildly plunged the knife into Malcolm’s side, drawing dribbles of blood. When that wasn’t enough, he ripped Malcolm’s shirt out of his pants, thrusting straight into his flesh. Hack. Stab. Slash. Gushes of blood streamed into the waistband of his pants.

Malcolm didn’t fight back.

Why was he doing this? He had met all of his father’s demands his whole life. Bent and conformed and caved to his wildest whims. Pushed back when others implored he try to create a healthier environment for himself, but never managed to stay away for good. None of Dr. Whitly’s behavior fit the profile he’d convinced himself he could manage.

Malcolm had had enough. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t tell Gil exactly what the source of those problems was at the moment because he didn’t even know. Spent so many full nights staring at Sunshine rest he couldn’t remember what day it was. Dr. Whitly was _destroying_ him twice every ten days, and he needed out.

But perhaps in a box he had just gotten a girl out of wasn’t the best approach.

When Dr. Whitly pulled back to strike again, Malcolm bumped his hips up, rolled Dr. Whitly, and straddled him. The knife slashed at Malcolm’s arm, but it couldn’t get any further, his forearm blocking the momentum enough that Mr. David managed to restrain him. A fierce talker, Dr. Whitly was, but a fighter? Malcolm was bounds stronger. A shot of fast-acting drugs later, Dr. Whitly was down for the count.

Malcolm shifted off his father and knelt on the floor, his arm clutching at his side. “Chuck’s got an ambulance coming,” Mr. David assured, handling moving Dr. Whitly away from him.

Malcolm gritted his teeth and tucked his chin into his shoulder, his hair falling across his face. His lips pressed together, he could smell his own sweat, feel the chilled tackiness of blood against his fingers, hear every beat of his heart echoing in his ears.

But he couldn’t say anything.

If he opened his mouth, an ear-splitting cry would come out for the boy who had been mutilated by his father’s hand. Psychological warfare in his own house, started at an age he didn’t recollect, regardless of the number of hours he thought about it. The pain had never stopped. The pain was, was too, was too —

“Ahhh,” he howled, doubling over his knees.

The floor was cool against his forehead, as cold as the blood at his side felt against his fingertips. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. _That’s for bumps and sprains, silly boy_ , his father chided him. Maybe if he rested a minute. Just a minute.

“—ey, hey, hey, kid.” Something shook him. A hand.

More hands turning him over, pressing _hard_ against his skin. “Ahhh,” he yelled, trying to curl in again, but hands held him back.

“Hey, hey, kid. _Kid_. Look here,” the voice instructed.

“Gil?” Malcolm questioned.

Malcolm blinked his eyes a few times, trying to clear the haze and discern if he was really there. He felt drugged, sloppy drunk — something wasn’t right.

Malcolm’s arms pulled again, trying to get out of his captor’s hands.

“ _Kid!_ ” Gil said firmer, louder, taking one of Malcolm’s hands in his. “You got hurt. You’re in the hospital. We’re trying to take care of you. But you gotta help us, kid.”

“Dad?” His quiet voice sliced his heart as badly as the call that he’d been attacked by his father.

“He can’t hurt you here.” As much as Gil wanted to, he couldn’t promise he’d never hurt him again.

“Gil?” Malcolm’s voice was thick with confusion.

“I’m right here. We’re gonna sit together while the doctors figure out what’s going on, okay?” Gil said patiently, trying to keep him calm. “You pulled some of your stitches.”

“Gil,” Malcolm repeated, and Gil took it as trying to weed through the jungle in his head.

Gil ran his thumb across the back of his hand, the closest contact he could manage for now to let him know he was safe.

“Do you think he’s a narwhal?” Malcolm said dreamily.

A grin split Gil’s face and he chuckled at the absurdity. “What?”

“Narwhals have stabby…stabby tusks,” Malcolm rambled, not making any sense.

“Kid, when they’re finished, you’re going to get jello,” Gil changed the subject.

“Lemon? S’needs to be…lemon,” his voice meandered. “I think I can fly — look.” He shook Gil’s hand.

“You’re flyin’.” Gil laughed.

“How’s the pain, Mr. Bright?” one of the doctors behind him asked.

“Frowny face,” Malcolm responded. “Gil, do you have me?”

“Of course I do. Want you to stay right here with me, talking about whatever makes you happy.”

“You want me?”

“Of course, kid.” Gil wanted to hug him and hold him tight until he understood a whole community would mourn his loss.

“Sunshine.”

“You’ll see her soon.”

“What kind of jello do you think Martians eat?”

“The Bright kind.”

Gil sat with him, continuing to respond to his nonsensical questions, smirking at how outlandish some of his phrases got, content that everyone still had Malcolm.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
